Supernova
by fandomsgirl48
Summary: Sherlock and John met because of their shared love of the solar system. But the army will always come first for John Watson, and nothing can prevent the chain of events that unfold because of it.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes met John Watson on the 30th of January, 1994. Sherlock had ditched school- a pointless affair- and slipped away to his favourite place, the Planetarium. John was there with a group of rowdy eighteen year olds on a school trip, trying to hide his enthusiasm for the solar system. Although he'd seen the show multiple times, Sherlock decided to attend the showing about black holes, eager to add some more knowledge to his mind palace.

It was purely coincidental that Sherlock ended up sitting by the short, non-descript boy who was trying to look unexcited about the show, but was failing. Sherlock scanned him, before promptly dismissing him as boring. Abusive father, alcoholic mother, considering going into the army, plays rugby for the school. Dull. Sherlock quickly immersed himself in the show, watching awe struck as black holes burst into existence prompted by the collapse of a star, and the dark void sucked everything- even light- into its clutches. He wasn't aware that he was muttering softly to himself, cataloguing the information and storing it, until the mundane boy beside him nudged his side.

"Can you be a bit quieter, mate?" he whispered, friendly despite himself. Sherlock was about to reply with a cutting remark, but met the boy's earnest eyes, and stopped mid-sentence. The boy wasn't glaring at him, or restraining a mocking smirk. A genuine smile was dancing around the corners of his mouth, and his eyebrows were raised in a friendly fashion. In all his sixteen years, Sherlock couldn't remember meeting someone who wasn't either laughing at him or disapproving. Unsettled by the experience, he moved his mouth wordlessly; aware that he looked idiotic, before nodding curtly and redirecting his attention back to the screen. The boy didn't whisper to his friends, or even send them a disbelieving look. He just watched the show with just as much reverence as Sherlock was, minus the muttering. The show ended, but the boy didn't turn back to his mates and begin joking about how boring the last forty minutes had been; he turned hesitantly to Sherlock and struck up a conversation.

"What were you muttering about?"

"Storing data."

"You were memorizing the entire show?"

"I wouldn't expect you to know about the things I was storing,"

"Oh yeah? Try me."

"What kind of planet is Jupiter?"

"That's easy. A gas planet,"

"Average temperature of Venus?"

"462 degrees Celsius"

"Amount of years it would take to travel to Pluto?"

"You've got me there," the boy laughed good naturedly, and thrust out his hand.

"John Watson. Nice to you meet you,"

Sherlock hesitated, but shook his hand briefly.

"Sherlock Holmes. You'll probably want to hurry home now, your father will be angry that you're late," Sherlock knew that saying this would drive John Watson away, and he fully intended for it to work. He didn't have _friends._ Shock flashed across John's rather boring blue eyes, but his face didn't contort in anger.

"How the hell do you know my father?" he said, standing up. Sherlock rolled his eyes- people were so dull.

"The bruises on your arms give it away. But you also stand rigidly, and shy away from raised voices. You wear thick jumpers, which stand out from what your frankly uninteresting friends wear. Your mother is an alcoholic, and can't protect you- small deep cuts made by broken bottles that you have to clear up- and you try and protect someone, judging from the angle that some of the bruises are formed. You put yourself between the attacker and the victim. Your usual school day ended half an hour ago, and your father is unemployed, judging by your shabby clothes. He'll be at home, since bars don't open yet, and he'll most likely be angry that you're late, because he likes to be in control, am I wrong?" Sherlock said, quickly and furtively. He was expecting John Watson to punch him, or tell him to piss off, but the boy gazed at Sherlock in amazement.

"That…was incredible. How on earth…"

Sherlock blinked, wondering how an abused boy could be so good natured. They were walking to the exit now- Sherlock hadn't remembered leaving the Planetarium, caught up in his deductions- and Sherlock was pleasantly surprised by this strange, friendly person that hadn't called him a freak immediately.

_Perhaps… _he thought as he strode out the doors, explaining his methods to John Watson. _Perhaps this one might be worth it._

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Sherlock Holmes decided that John Watson was his friend on the 21st of March, 1994. John had deemed it prudent to turn up at the Holmes manor armed with space documentaries and books, and demanded that Sherlock teach him everything he knew. Sherlock had been obsessed with the universe since he was able to read, and couldn't resist the opportunity to show off his knowledge, as was in the nature of a Holmes. So, John and Sherlock had sprawled on Sherlock's ridiculously big bed, and read the books together, quietly taking turns to read aloud. Any new information Sherlock scribbled on a piece of paper, and pinned it to the wall. The Wall_, _as it was referred to for many years to come, was adorned with diagrams and notes relating to the universe. Sherlock had begun by sketching the Solar System at the age of ten, but it was now swamped in Sherlock's untidy scrawl and pages ripped from library books. John's slightly neater handwriting began to force it's way onto The Wall, and before long, half of the space was covered in Sherlock's pretentious fountain pen, and the other half was John's blue biro. John's lack of artistic talent was made up for by his way of arranging the notes so that it looked like less like a mess of thoughts and more like an organised research source.

Sherlock also found himself noting down details about John Watson himself, as well. John was eighteen, in his final year of sixth form. He was studying Physics, PE and Biology. His father beat him up once every few months. He loved rugby with a passion. His big sister rarely came home, but when she did, he always had to protect her from their father. He loved space because it was infinite, and there was always more to discover. And funnily, Sherlock could relate. Not that he loved space because it was infinite (Sherlock loved space because of the science that could be applied) but because John was rather like a universe. There was always more to discover. And Sherlock wanted to discover John Watson.

Once, Sherlock hadn't noticed himself staring at John while he read, but John clearly did.

"You alright?" John asked curiously. John's eyes, which he'd deemed boring before, were actually more interesting than he'd thought.

"Are we friends, John?" Sherlock asked, before he could stop himself. John looked surprised, but nodded.

"Yeah, we are. Why else do you think I put up with you?" he said, his winning smile crossing his face. A rush of warmth shot through Sherlock's heart, something he was unused to.

"I've never had a friend before," he admitted. And John's answering grin was enough to make him feel like friendship wasn't an utter waste of time.

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Sherlock Holmes realised he loved John Watson on the 22nd of June 1994. Sherlock was lingering around John's college (he'd finished his GCSEs last month, and therefore had little to do on the days where John was busy). He was slouched on a bench, reading a book on anatomy, waiting for John to finish his classes. Honestly, wasn't now the time of year when classes were infrequent and not mandatory?

Over the last few months, John and Sherlock had grown to be inseparable. They spent almost every moment together, not just studying space- John had taken Sherlock to the cinema for the first time, and Sherlock had forced John to come on a family museum trip, to save him from his insufferable brother. Honestly, Sherlock couldn't remember what life was like without John Watson casting his positive light upon everything he touched. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to live without John's cropped ash hair, or his infectious grin, or his pure goodness. Sherlock's train of thought trailed off when John appeared from the doors, flanked by his school friends. John's eye immediately caught his, and the smile he adored so much crossed John's face. Sherlock returned the smile, but waited for John to come over to him. He wasn't sure how John's friends would react to him.

John's friends began nudging John, and saying things Sherlock couldn't decipher. The females began to giggle, and John's ears went slightly pink, before he yelled at them to piss off, and jogged over to Sherlock.

"Look, I found that bit on Io you wanted," he beamed, holding up a library page. And that was it. Sherlock Holmes came to the conclusion that John Watson was his universe, and not even a black hole could devour the light that radiated from his every pore.

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Sherlock was kissed by John Watson on the 1th of July 1994. They were slumped against The Wall, after spending the day at the park. Sherlock wasn't really listening to him prattling about his future plans, because he was more interested in John's lips and way they formed each word in a unique and wondrous way. Sherlock was aware that their arms and thighs were pressed together, and that they were too close for what most people defined as friends. John's head had found its way to rest on Sherlock's shoulder, and their hands were linked, resting on Sherlock's knee. It just felt natural this way- like this didn't need to be discussed.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?" John said, lifting his head to stare at Sherlock.

"Truthfully, no," Sherlock said, thoughtlessly brushing John's forehead with his lips. He then stiffened- _No, no, stupid, stupid. Now he'll leave-_ and broke away, almost running away from the other boy.

"I'm sorry… I didn't meant to J-" Sherlock was cut off by John's lips crashing against his, and his body slamming against The Wall, and an explosion equal to the Big Bang occurring within his brain. John's hands tangled themselves in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's arms fell to John's waist without conscious thought, and all Sherlock could think of was how all the gas and rocks in the universe _were_ finally forming planets and stars after what seemed like billions of years of floating aimlessly. It could have been an eternity before John they finally came up for air, and Sherlock couldn't help but press his forehead to John's.

"I don't mind," John breathed, grinning stupidly. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Clearly,"

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Sherlock Holmes lost his virginity to John Watson on the 18th of July, 1994. It was the eve of Sherlock's Prom (a fairly low key event in England, but still exciting for those who enjoyed it) and John had forced him to go, insistent that it would be a 'good experience'.

"You just want an excuse to finally shag me," Sherlock protested as they got ready for what was sure to be a night of hell. John had given him a devilish smirk, and straightened Sherlock's tie.

"I won't if you try and back out now," John said, conspicuously eyeing Sherlock's torso. Snorting, Sherlock shrugged on his tuxedo jacket.

"That's nonsense. You can barely keep your hands off me," he said, giving himself a once over in the mirror. He wished he didn't have to bother with this tedious affair, but John had said something about wanting to show him off. How superficial.

"Thank god I'm not dating someone arrogant," John said dryly, pulling Sherlock by his elbow towards the door.

"Thank god," Sherlock agreed, wrapping his arm around John's waist.

The majority of Sherlock's classmates had been surprised to see Sherlock Holmes entering the hall with John Watson on his arm. They'd ignored the stares and carried on with their night, curled up in the corner clutching glasses of punch and whispering in each other's ear. Sherlock usually felt somewhat self conscious when surrounded by his class mates, but John's presence made the evening almost enjoyable. He felt _confident_ as he deduced every person in the room to his boyfriend, and most importantly, he was proud that everyone knew that John Watson was _his._

That feeling of elation didn't end when they got back to Sherlock's house. John's mouth was everywhere, and Sherlock's hands were ripping John's shirt from his body, and John was returning the favour in an almost desperate fashion. This wasn't the first time they'd attempted this- the time before they'd been interrupted by Sherlock's older brother walking in and finding Sherlock lying in bed, clad in just his underwear as John pulled down his own trousers. That was how Sherlock's family had found out about their relationship. But this time was special, Sherlock was sure, as his skin met John's flushed body, and they collapsed onto the bed, reluctant to ever part. Everything was a blur of passion and kisses and pleasure, and Sherlock felt galaxies of stars explode across his vision as John _finally _connected them as one. They were no longer individual elements, but a compound that couldn't be separated, even when they physically did. As Sherlock lay on John's sweat ridden chest, their legs intertwined and arms wrapped around each other, he concluded that John's eyes weren't boring at all, but the most complex and infinite things he'd ever encountered.

"I adore you," he confessed quietly, running his fingers over the fading bruises that littered John's body. John spent the majority of his time at Sherlock's these days, to escape his father, but he couldn't always evade him. They hadn't discussed the subject much, but nothing would stop Sherlock from killing John's father if he harmed John more than a bruise.

"I know," John grinned drowsily, tightening his grip on Sherlock. In that moment, Sherlock felt that the universe could implode and he wouldn't care, as long as he was in John Watson's arms.

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Sherlock Holmes left John Watson for the first time on the 28th of October, 1996. They'd been arguing about the army again- John had come up with the ridiculous idea that being an _army doctor _was the ideal career choice, and Sherlock didn't agree. How could he, when John Watson was his sole reason for existing, and yet the idiot wished to voluntarily endanger his life? Sherlock had come home from college- John was on a break from University, and therefore they were residing in the flat that they only used when John was home- and found John filling out application forms.

"It'll take almost nine years to train for it, Sherlock! It's hardly a current issue," John had yelled after what felt like hours of screaming at each other.

"Why bother? Why can't you stay here?" Sherlock had shouted back. He was sure malice was flashing across his features as spat out the finishing argument.

"Or are you feeling suffocated? You don't want to deal with a normal, domestic life so you flee to the army. I thought more of you, John," he hissed. A pain stricken, but guilty expression crossed John's face, before he threw Sherlock's bag at his head.

"Fuck you. Go back to your fucking _manor_, and be spoilt by Mummy," he bellowed, before slamming into the bedroom. Sherlock stared after him for a moment, before dropping his keys on the table and almost sprinting out the door, trying to make sense of his emotions. After shutting the door as loudly as possible, he slid down against it, aware that his breathing was erratic and his head was spinning. Surely this wasn't the end? They'd been together for two years now, and they'd had arguments worse than this. But this wasn't a petty feud- this was cold hard reality driving a wedge between them, and Sherlock didn't know how in control he was.

After almost a month of silence, John appeared on Sherlock's doorstep with the complete series of their favourite space documentaries, and Sherlock let him in, because in all honesty, John Watson was the sun, and Sherlock was a planet, useless without a sun to orbit. They'd talked all evening, but didn't say anything that mattered. And Sherlock was fine with that, as long as he could lean against The Wall with John Watson and pretend that no one else existed.

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Sherlock Holmes agreed to marry John Watson on the 14th of May, 2000. Coincidently, Sherlock had graduated University on the same day that John got home from the Military base where he'd been residing for the last few months, so John could attend the ceremony. He'd turned up in his military khakis, and Sherlock could barely restrain his grin as he collected his diploma, simply because John was actually here, and the world felt right again.

After the ceremony, John was waiting in the corner of the room, complete with his duffel bag and military stance. His eyes were the same irresistible blue, although they looked more tired than usual, and his boyish haircut had disappeared in favour of a cropped style. Sherlock ran over and engulfed the shorter man in his arms, wishing he never had to let go. Nothing compared to the loneliness Sherlock felt when John was away training as a doctor (he'd opted to train medically in the army, rather than as a doctor).

"You need a haircut," John murmured into his shoulder, holding him just as tightly.

"Irrelevant," Sherlock responded, drunk with the sight of his partner. John smirked, and kissed Sherlock's cheek (he'd always been reserved about public displays of affection. Sherlock couldn't care less.)

"I feel stupid next to you, with your degree in Physics," he teased. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and linked his hands with John.

"Please. You could have easily embarked upon this course," he said, leading John to his car. John laughed as he climbed in the passenger side, and threw his bag in the back seat.

"Nah. Planetarium?"

"Where else?"

They'd watched countless showings that night, hands intertwined and Sherlock's head resting on John's shoulder. Afterwards, John had taken Sherlock to a spot where they could see the stars, and they lay in the grass, every part of their bodies possible touching, and they'd talked about everything. They finally talked about the army- they hadn't said anything even as John left, or during any of his mess dinners. John promised that he'd leave the army when he was thirty, so he and Sherlock could properly start a life together.

"I just want to make it to Afghanistan," he'd said, looking Sherlock directly in the eye. And Sherlock believed him when he swore he'd be careful, and make it home to him. How couldn't he, with what John said next?

"I want to marry you, when I get back for good," John said, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"Is that a proposal?" Sherlock said, numb with disbelief. John chuckled nervously.

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes, will you be my husband?" Sherlock stared at John, sure that the moon was shining brighter than usual, and was even surer that he loved John more now than he ever had before.

"I suppose," he breathed, grinning at John. John pushed him playfully, but beamed right back. Sherlock concluded that happiness was lying beneath the stars with his fiancé on his chest, and feeling as if they had the rest of their lives together.

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Sherlock Holmes said goodbye to John Watson on 7th of September, 2003. John was finally being deported to Afghanistan, after what felt like decades of training. Sherlock had expressed his fears, but the promise of marriage made him sure that John would return. He had to- it was a simple matter of physics. John Watson always returned to Sherlock Holmes, because of gravity- the laws of physics couldn't be rewritten.

They reached to the airport fifteen minutes before the flight, leaving them barely any time to say their farewells. John glanced at his watch, swore loudly, and pulled Sherlock down into his arms. Sherlock was now a good four inches taller than John, but John made up for it in strength. He embraced John tightly as humanly possible, feeling strangely at peace with the whole ordeal- John would have his run with the army, and then return home safe. John had promised.

"Remember to eat," John said, his mouth beside Sherlock's ear.

"I can't make any promises," Sherlock replied- he often had trouble remembering to fuel his body. John laughed. Sherlock loved John's laugh.

"Call your mother once a week, keep adding to The Wall and don't run off with some other man," John teased, pulling back and kissing Sherlock. Sherlock would have liked to have a proper snog, but John objected to kissing passionately in public for some reason.

"Stay safe," Sherlock said softly, brushing his hand over John's face. John flashed his blinding smile, before shouldering his bag.

"I'll marry you when I get home," he reminded Sherlock- as if he'd forgotten. Sherlock watched his soldier stride away, a feeling of impending doom and crippling misery filling his body.

"I know," he whispered, drinking in John's suntanned skin and ash hair and unbelievable eyes once more, before he turned his back and strode out of the airport.

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Sherlock Holmes received the news of John Watson's death on the 29th of January, 2004. It was an ordinary morning- waking up to a bare, cold flat after a rare full night's sleep. Shuffling around the kitchen, making tea, and reading the newspaper. Dull stories about dull people with dull lives. Hardly worth Sherlock's time. He was drinking his tea when the post came- Sherlock usually ignored the post, but John had taken to writing to him once a week and he wrote on Tuesdays.

The envelope was thin, and cheap- the writing untidy and unfamiliar. Sherlock didn't think anything of it as he often got letters relating to his job as a Physicist. He picked up the letter along with bills, and began to sift through them, looking for John's handwriting. Disappointment brewed in the pit of his stomach as the post turned out to be primarily bills and a gardening catalogue. _A gardening catalogue._ Sherlock snorted as he ripped open the only letter, and felt the entire universe collapse upon itself and cease to exist as he read the words on the page.

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I regret very much to inform you that your fiancé John Watson of the Royal Army Medical Corps was killed in action the previous night. He was attending to an injured soldier in a battlefield, and a shell exploded, killing him and two others instantly. I can assure you his death was painless and almost instant. His work was and still is widely respected and he was regarded with great honour within our troops for saving many lives. We offer our deepest condolences, and hope it brings you some comfort to know that he was an outstanding soldier, who always did his duty._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Captain Roy Keller._

Sherlock put down the letter, aware that his hands were shaking. There were hundreds of John Watsons in the army. It was obviously a mistake. It couldn't be _his_ John- his John and his secret obsession with space and annoying need to be heroic and his earnest smile. The name John Watson simply couldn't equate death- that wasn't how physics worked. Physics predicted that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would marry, and settle down. Physics predicted that Sherlock Holmes would wake up to John Watson's voice everyday for the next seventy years, and he would never tire of it. Physics predicted that Sherlock Holmes couldn't exist without John Watson, and so there was no fathomable reason as to how John Watson could be dead. It simply didn't make sense.

So Sherlock put his head in his hands as he felt the sobs build up in his throat and begin to tear him apart, and let entire galaxies implode and destroy his organs, because honestly, what use where they without John Watson? What could a planet orbit if deprived of its sun? Sherlock didn't know the answer, and all he could think of was his John's smile and the feel of John's lips and the agonizing pain that was consuming him bit by bit. And Sherlock Holmes was utterly broken, by a few words on a piece of paper.

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Sherlock Homes ignored John Watson's funeral on the 27th of March 2004. He didn't

want to go- he wanted stay at home and sob into his mother's shoulder. He wanted to retrieve a pair of John's old pajamas and drink his way into oblivion in a now cold bed. More than anything, he wanted to avoid all the people who would tell him how sorry they were, and how tragic the whole event was. So he did. His mother warned him that people would talk, that gossip would float around about how John Watson's fiancé didn't turn up to the funeral. Sherlock had screamed about how he didn't give a damn, and slammed back into his parent's spare room, which he had inhabited since John's death.

He'd spent the night the funeral before consuming a ridiculous amount of alcohol, and looking at photos. Most likely crying, but there was also the chance that he'd consumed so much alcohol that the tears wouldn't come. Sherlock had sorted through ten years worth of photos, primarily of John. John getting his driving licence, getting his A level results, going to a protest for the first time, leaving for University. Although the lines around his eyes had grown more pronounced, and his face had matured slightly, he looked almost the same in every photo…always beaming, dominating the picture with his friendly warmth. There was the occasional photo that Sherlock had agreed to be in- John with his arm round Sherlock's waist while Sherlock grimaced, or Sherlock refusing to pull any facial expression at all, and John attempting to make him laugh. Sherlock's favourite was of him and John laughing, unaware the photo was being taken. John was about twenty, and he eighteen, and they were looking at each other with such adoration, as if the other was equal to billions of stars. That picture had made Sherlock down his cup of whiskey in one, and he couldn't remember the rest of the night.

Sherlock didn't hear his parents leave for the funeral. He awoke to a damp pillow and a glass of water, which had clearly been left by his mother. After an internal war with himself, Sherlock reached his childhood bedroom's door, and steeled himself, before entering. It appeared that his parents had left his room untouched from two years ago- when he'd come here after a particularly bad row with John. Books still littered the room, and all his science equipment was untampered with. The Wall was now painful to look at, but that didn't stop Sherlock from brushing his fingers over John's handwriting. It was hard to imagine that the hand which had scrawled these was now cold and unmoving, never to grace the world with his extraordinary thoughts and ideas. Sherlock's hand clenched around a note detailing the formula for aerodynamics, and tried desperately to block the flood of crushing emotions. When would this torture end? Would he ever even start to move on from John Watson? The sodding tears were clouding his vision again, and Sherlock ripped up the stupid piece of paper which was breaking his unbreakable persona of a cold machine in an uncalculated move of anger. Anger that John Watson enlisted in the army, even though Sherlock had begged him not to. Anger that he'd decided that he had to save lives, even though he was killing Sherlock in the process. Anger that John had _left him behind,_ even though he'd promised he'd return.

Sherlock didn't even regret what he did next. He tore down every single piece of paper on The Wall, shredded it and shredded the memories of him and John making this piece of art together. He ruthlessly destroyed what had taken years of work, and even tears failed him. All he felt was rage, that John had the audacity to do this to him. And he took it out on was left of John, because a wedding wouldn't have binded them nearly as much as this wall did. This was their marriage, and Sherlock remorselessly destroyed it- John had already ruined everything. Sherlock was just returning the favour.

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Sherlock Holmes visited John Watson's grave on the 1st of April 2004. He'd selected some flowers from a local florist, but he hadn't really put much thought into what types they were. It wasn't like John would care. John's grave was underneath one of the graveyard's many trees, looking completely spotless and polished.

_John Hamish Watson _

_1976-2004_

Sherlock had decided against a sentimental message, or a quote. The gravestone was simple and straight forward, like John. People thought that John was completely ordinary, with his cardigans and love for tea and short stature. But Sherlock knew. Sherlock knew how incredible John really was, and he doubted that society would ever appreciate his brilliance.

Of course he didn't say this. He stared unblinkingly at the gravestone for what could have been eternity, just thinking. Thinking that this wasn't how it was supposed to go. In a perfect world, John would have returned from Afghanistan with a soft smile on his face, and embraced Sherlock. They'd have married surrounded by their friends, and probably gone on a honeymoon. John liked Italy- he'd have made them go there then. They'd have spent days upon end in the sheets, wrapped in each other and the Mediterranean sun. After that, they'd have gone to London and selected a flat. John would have become a GP doctor most likely, even though he always feared that Sherlock would find him boring. As if.

The damn tears began to cloud Sherlock's vision as he finally began to imagine what they should have become. They were supposed to grow old together, and Sherlock would find himself in seventy years sitting beside John at the fireplace, reminiscing about their youths and being completely in love with each other even after all the time they'd had together. All that time they never will have

Now Sherlock was curled beside John's gravestone, wishing more than anything in the universe that gravity would pull him beneath the freshly dug earth and return him to where he belonged. By John. His John. Sobs were wracking his body, and his hands were grabbing frantically for something to cling onto. They found what was left of John Watson, and Sherlock held it as he let sentiment destroy his body. This was wrong. All wrong. Why couldn't it have been him? Why condemn John Watson when someone as broken as Sherlock Holmes existed?

Sherlock's brother found him the next morning, red eyed and shaking. Sherlock let himself be led away, unknowing that this would be the last time he set eyes upon John Watson's gravestone.

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Sherlock Holmes ridded himself of John Watson on the 30th of January 2005. After visiting John's grave, he'd spent weeks in a haze of alcohol and cocaine, until his brother intervened. Sherlock's brother had found him in his and John's old flat, drinking whiskey, curled up in John's old clothes. Tears streaked his pale face, and it was obvious to Sherlock's brother that Sherlock hadn't eaten in days. Something had to be done.

So after quitting his previous job, Sherlock was introduced to crime scenes. His ability to read a person's life story in their appearance and manner applied to corpses as well, and he gained the ability to deduce everything from the murderer to the exact location of the victim a week before death. Sherlock was called into more and more cases by the DI in charge, and his abilities became somewhat famous- now he was Sherlock Holmes, the great detective who could solve a murder in a matter on minutes. He was limited by only one thing- sentiment.

Every time he saw a blonde haired male, he'd think of John Watson. Every time he saw an ex solider, he'd think of John Watson. Every time he so much as looked at the night sky and saw the burning stars, he heard John Watson's laugh echoing in his ears. He hadn't been able to face John's grave since April, but John still dominated his every move, contaminated his every memory, stalked his every thought. It seemed that no matter how hard he tried, he'd never escape John Watson. And Sherlock resented John for it. He'd been told that caring was not an advantage since he was six, and god he knew why. This was disgusting- the weakness that he was subjected to just because he cared. It made him detest himself.

He'd spent years refining his mind palace- carefully sorting information and organizing it into usefulness. Now he could simply delete data- deem it unimportant and forget it forever. But it had never occurred to him to use it on John Watson until now. As he stood before a corpse, the deductions ricocheting around his skull, unable to choke out a singular word because the corpse had blue eyes like John Watson's. Sherlock Holmes' throat clenched and tears blurred his vision as he stared into the man's unmoving eyes, which looked like they used to swirl like galaxies. The police officers stared blankly at him, unable to deduce what was wrong. Waiting for him to amaze them. But Sherlock couldn't, not when John Watson was lingering over him.

He ran from the crime scene, finding a cramped alley wall to lean against. His breath was visible in the January air, and the tears were cutting icy paths across his face. Sherlock thought he was shaking with cold, but instead he was shaking with rage. Pure rage. Damn John Watson to the pits of hell for doing this to him. As he mentally screamed at his dead fiancé, the idea struck him. Why not end the pain? Surely he could delete John- and by deleting the man, he'd make more space for useful information. Trembling with emotion, Sherlock raised his hands to his forehead, and closed his eyes.

Meeting John. _Deleted. _Befriending John. _Deleted. _Kissing John. _Deleted. _

And on it went, until Sherlock Holmes had not only deleted the entire solar system, but also John's entire existence. He slowly opened his eyes, and blinked. Why were tears rolling down his cheeks? Since when had sentiment got the better of him?

Sherlock returned to the crime scene, and had smiled at the officers with a psychotic expression on his angular face. He'd rattled off his deductions at record speed, and solved the crime within a matter of seconds. He'd returned to his flat, and instead of sobbing himself to sleep, he'd started an experiment. And from the night onwards, Sherlock became the one of Britain's greatest minds. He was ruthless, cruel and completely unfeeling, but a complete genius.

But these days, ask Sherlock Holmes what the earth rotates, he'll dismiss your question and deduce a horrific truth from your life. Ask what stars are, and he'll ignore you. Ask him who John Watson is, and he'll stare at you blankly, as he genuinely wonders who on earth could occupy that name. But most importantly, ask him who he loves, and he'll regard you coolly, before sweeping away. Because Sherlock Holmes has no memory of John Watson. And most likely never will.

THE END


	2. Deleted Scene- The Funeral

_**This is a deleted scene from Supernova. Although I like the writing, I don't**__**feel like it fits in with the rest of the piece, and I find it unrealistic that Sherlock would turn up. So here's John's funeral, if Sherlock attended and had to give a speech-**_

He'd spent hours staring blankly at a laptop screen, trying to put his feelings into words. As he stood before what seemed like hundreds of people at the front of the church, he felt like butterflies should be in his stomach, or however the saying went. All he felt was misery, at the fact that John would have laughed at the whole affair, and complained about how over done it was. Sherlock would have agreed, and they'd have left together arm in arm. But John was lying in a coffin a few feet behind Sherlock, and Sherlock had done his best not to look at the wooden box encasing a large part of his heart, but nothing could stop him from picturing how pale John's face would be or how uncomfortable he'd be in the stupid suit he was dressed in. The tragedy of the whole affair, Sherlock thought as he placed his speech notes upon the podium, was that these people had accepted John Watson's expiration, and he never would. To him, John Watson was still very much alive, although the sombre faces and the coffin said differently. And the only thing that kept Sherlock going was the image of John making snarky remarks from the back of the church, and throwing him sympathetic looks.

"I met John Watson just over ten years ago, at a planetarium. We were space enthusiasts, and fate decided that would be how we met," Sherlock began, surprised his voice was functioning when his throat felt so tight.

"Upon meeting him I concluded that he was completely ordinary. I had no idea that I had just encountered the bravest, wisest and kindest man I'll ever know. I accepted that I'm a difficult man to love a while ago, but John did more than return my love- he showed what life was like in a universe full of colour, not the monochrome one I was living in. Fate was cruel, and he was stolen from us too soon- I had always relied on the rules of the universe, hoping that a misdirected bullet wouldn't unbalance the Cosmos. Alas, rules exist to be broken, and here we are. I'd hoped that I'd be making a speech similar to this at our wedding, but John was always determined to play hero. This kind of death seems almost fitting," Sherlock gave a bitter laugh as he surveyed the audience, not the John Watson of his imagination, for the first time.

John's relatives now had entirely blank faces- they looked midly upset at the situation. Everyone else in the church was watching with a neutral, almost pitying expression on their faces. It made Sherlock sick. Didn't they understand that they'd never have a conversation with John again? That they'd never see his bright eyes or smile again? Of course not. Sherlock felt anger rise through his body, and he almost spat the rest of the speech.

"It appears that barely any of you even care. You, second pew, 3rd along from the right. You're here because you were a school acquaintance, and you feel guilty for always snubbing him during lessons. And you, seventh pew, 1st on the left. You're here because your brother made you come. It's all so tiresome, so let's cut the pretences. You're all pretending that this is a sad occurrence that has affected you negatively, but honestly? You're here because society dictates you to. Maybe because some sort of buffet has been arranged afterwards. Maybe because you want to reconcile with old friends. But none of you will ever understand what John Watson's absence means, and it disgusts me. Have a good afternoon pretending to care,"

And Sherlock fled the room, hoping he'd never have to even hear of any of the people in attendance again.


End file.
